The Priest at Puddle's End (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Book 10) Read online

  “Oh no, mum, you have the wrong idea. I doubt she would have done it if that’s what you mean. She and Matilda were good friends. They shared the same love for mint tea. No, I couldn’t believe it if she’d done it, I really couldn’t.”

  Frances nodded.

  “I think that’s all for now, Isabel,” said Frances. “Thank you.”

  Isabel put her hand on Frances’ forearm. Her eyes got misty.

  “You will catch whoever did this, won’t you?” she implored. “I’m scared to be next.”

  “It’s harder when I don’t know exactly what’s been going on in here that has people holding onto secrets. Can you tell me, Isabel? The truth will help a lot.”

  Isabel looked down at the floor. She fiddled with her hands and her apron. She looked up and shook her head sadly.

  “It’s all done now, mum. Nothing can be done about the past. It’s the future we live for now.”

  “So you won’t say?”

  “I can’t. There’s too much at stake.” Her eyes misted more and a tear rolled down her cheek. “God forgive us all, but we’re sorry now.”

  Frances shook her head angrily.

  “You’d think this church was built upon a foundation of murdered babies,” she said exasperatedly.

  She stared at Isabel for a long time. The woman wouldn’t hold her eye.

  “Can I go and let Father know I’ll be going out to get tea?”

  Frances nodded. Isabel walked off.

  “Bloody hell, Flo, what on earth is going on here.”

  “Wish I knew, but it’s clear that they’re holding onto secrets. Do you think it’s key?”

  Frances looked at her friend and nodded.

  “I do. If I knew the secrets they were hiding, we’d be on top of the killer in no time. I want to go and see this Shan Beake.”

  “You think she might help.”

  “Well, she can’t be anymore opaque than the rest of this bunch.”

  Isabel came back into the kitchen. She was smiling again.

  “Father’s happy to be getting his tea this morning,” she said.

  Frances didn’t say anything.

  “This way, dear,” said Florence.

  TEN

  Cracks in the Wall

  IT was late afternoon when the telephone rang. Frances had tried to put the frustration of the day behind her but that wasn’t as easy as it seemed. Like a scratch that was itching, she couldn’t help but let her mind wander over the events and to try and sort it out to no avail. They were ready to leave for Shan Beake’s when the phone rang. Florence answered it.

  “Hello? Well hello, Chief Inspector, it’s Florence Hudnall. Do you have news for Fran? Yes, she is. Just a moment.”

  Florence cradled the telephone handle against her other hand to mute it. She looked over at Frances.

  “It’s Chief Inspector Pearce,” she said. “He says he has some information for you.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Frances got up from the couch and took the telephone from Florence. She sat down by the small table and took a pencil from a small container just in case. In front of her was a pad of paper.

  “Devlin, it’s Frances. You have some news? Good news? That is great news. I’m afraid there’s been a turn of events here. I was hoping you could come up to Puddle’s End. We’ve had another murder. That would be wonderful. Thank you, Devlin. Secretary of the church. I think it could be related. Uh, Devlin? Have you spoken with him yet? Where? Good heavens, so he hadn’t gone far. Thank you, Devlin, see you then.”

  Frances hung up the phone. She stared at the pad of paper in front of her upon which she had written nothing.

  “Well, go on then, what did he have to say?” asked Florence.

  “They’ve got Turnbull, and he wanted us to head on down to London tomorrow.”

  “But you told him about Matilda Walmsley.”

  “Yes, I did, he’ll be coming up tomorrow afternoon instead.”

  “With Turnbull?”

  “Yes, he’ll be bringing Turnbull with him. Flo,” said Frances, looking up at her friend. “I think this might just be the break we’ve been looking for.”

  “You think so? What if he did it and it’s unrelated to the current murder?”

  “If he did it, and by that you mean the Deacon’s murder” said Frances, “I’m sure we can get a confession from him. And it might shed some light on the dark secrets in this town. If he didn’t do it, then we’ll find out what he knows. Why he left so quickly? He had a history with the Deacon. I’m sure he knows a lot about the goings on here.”

  Florence smiled.

  “This is terribly good news,” she said. “I can’t wait to resolve this. It’s been such a weight on this town.”

  Frances nodded.

  “Well, should we be off to see Shan?”

  Florence nodded, picked up her keys and after putting on their coats they made their way to the car. They took their brollies for although the rain had stopped the clouds were still hanging heavily from a petulant heaven.

  Shan Beake’s home was not far. Nothing in this small hamlet was. Though not everything was within walking distance. A short ten minute drive brought them a ten minute walk from the church where Shan Beake lived in a cottage not dissimilar from Florence’s.

  As they walked up the cobblestone path to the front door they could see her in the window of the main living room looking out over her front garden. To call it a garden was being kind. The plants, bushes and flowers that lived in that mess hadn’t felt the loving touch of a green thumb in what looked like ages.

  Florence rapped on the front door. It took longer than they were expecting for it to be answered. When it was, the reason became clear. Shan Beake was a short squat woman who looked like a toad dressed up in woman’s clothes. She held on tightly to a cane in her right hand and she wheezed as she breathed.

  “Hello,” she said, from a face that sprouted moles and those moles in turn sprouted hair.

  “Good afternoon,” said Florence, “I’m Florence Hudnall and this is my dear friend Frances Marmalade.”

  “You here about the murder?” she asked.

  “We are. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind,” said Florence.

  “But you’re not police.”

  “No, we’re not, but we’re here trying to help them. Sergeant Noble said he’d be along as soon as he could.”

  That little lie seemed to smooth the wrinkles in Shan Beake’s mind and she opened the door wider for them.

  “Come on in. I don’t have tea I’m afraid. Just ran out. All I’ve got is mint tea if you’ll have some.”

  The ceilings of the cottage were yellowed from years of smoke. Indeed, they were currently being nuzzled by a thin layer of smoke that had curled up to them from an ashtray that Lady Marmalade saw was full of cigarette ends as they entered the living room.

  “We just had some before we came,” said Frances, lying and nodding at Florence. “We don’t want to take up much of your time. We can understand how difficult this must be for you.”

  “Suit yourselves,” said Shan as she sat back down on an armchair draped with a knitted blanket, picking up a fat white longhaired cat that had decided to curl up in it. She placed the cat back on her lap and it obediently obliged as if it might have been too tired to argue. Frances noticed that the chair swiveled on its base.

  “This is Hairy,” said Shan, patting her cat. She smiled at them.

  “Harry?” asked Frances.

  “Hairy, on account of all his long hair.”

  Shan laughed which turned into a wheeze which turned into a coughing spasm. Florence got up and gave her her glass of water which was sitting on the table next to her. Shan took a sip and that seemed to help.

  Frances noticed cat hair all around on all the sitting areas. Indeed, there was even a slight layer of dust on many parts of the table that hadn't been accidentally brushed by a hand or piece of clothing. The cottage smelled of stale smoke
and strong perfume. It wasn’t a good combination.

  “So you’re here about Matilda,” said Shan, lighting up another cigarette at the end of a long black dinner length cigarette holder. After she’d finished lighting the cigarette she offered the pack of cigarettes to Frances and Florence, both declining.

  “When was the last time you saw Matilda?” asked Florence.

  Shan blew smoke towards the ceiling. She patted Hairy with her free hand subconsciously as the cat purred.

  “That would have been Friday afternoon. We usually met at the pub for a drink on Friday afternoons around five, just before it gets busy.”

  “The Flying Blizzard?” asked Florence.

  Shan scowled.

  “Not them, no, the Teels are bloody imbeciles,” she said. “No, we meet at the other one, the Wet Whistle.”

  “I see. You don’t like The Flying Blizzard?” asked Florence.

  “I like it fine, I don’t like the Teels. Neither did Tillie.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because they think they’re better than the rest of us. Too good for church. They think they’re sinless.”

  “Can you give any examples of that?”

  “Well, they don’t attend anymore, do they? That says a lot about a person, doesn’t it? They used to. Then they stopped when their kids were small. Children need God’s teaching to grow up straight and right.”

  “And if they don’t?” asked Lady Marmalade.

  “Then they get up to no good. Look at Colin Lewis as an example.”

  “So you think that his father had nothing to do with it?” asked Frances.

  Shan shrugged and sucked on her cigarette.

  “I don’t get involved in private matters of families,” she said.

  “So sparing the rod does indeed spoil the child then, does it?”

  Shan nodded and looked down at her white cat as she scratched behind its ears.

  “Did you have any children?” asked Frances.

  “Not sure what difference that makes.”

  “Just asking questions, dear,” said Frances, “trying to understand the workings of Puddle’s End.”

  “Never had the chance to have children, but I would have been a good mother.”

  Frances smiled and nodded politely.

  “Did Matilda have children?”

  Shan shook her head and tapped the cigarette into the almost full ashtray. She rested the filter on the ashtray lip and picked up her mug filled with mint tea and took a sip.

  “We were the same that way. We also shared an enjoyment for mint tea.”

  “You were friends a long time?” asked Florence.

  “Over twenty years,” she said. “When I moved up here from Blackpool. I worked in Blackpool a long time. Retired from the city government and came out here when my mother passed. Must have been twenty-five I think.”

  Shan thought for a moment.

  “Yes, nineteen twenty-five. Joined the church then and that’s how I met Matilda.”

  “She was older than you?” asked Florence.

  “Ten years.”

  “You were young then when you retired,” said Florence.

  “Depends how you look at it. I get a small pension from work but I came up here to take care of my mother for the year before she passed. Left me the house and a small stipend. I make do.”

  “Did Matilda ever talk to you about her work at the church?” asked Frances.

  “Sure. But not much. Mostly she talked about the parishioners. Some she liked, others she didn’t.”

  “Who didn’t she like?” asked Frances.

  “She didn’t like that Lewis boy, nor the Teels much. Not so much the children, they were just children, but that Galen Teel she didn’t like.”

  “Why not?”

  “He put his nose into business it didn’t belong.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Church business. She didn’t say much, but she said he’d ring up some times and ask what was going on with the finances and to speak with Father Fannon. She said Father Fannon was always frustrated after speaking with him.”

  “Did she say what they spoke about?”

  “No, and I don’t think she knew.”

  “When we first arrived you asked us if we were here about Matilda’s murder. What makes you think she was murdered? That hasn’t been determined yet.”

  “Just speculation. I saw her on Friday like I said, and then this morning she ends up dead. She was fit as a fiddle. Much healthier than me.”

  “But she was an older woman,” said Florence.

  Shan gave her a steely eye.

  “She was, but she was healthy. Walked to work everyday. Twenty minutes each way. The only thing I ever heard her complain about was the arthritis in her hands. She was murdered, mark my words.”

  “Do you have someone in mind who might have wanted to do that to her?” continued Florence.

  Shan put out her cigarette and sipped tea. She kept petting her cat.

  “Hard to say. Tillie didn’t care for the Teels like I said, and she didn’t think much of the groundskeeper or the housekeeper for that matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “She said they weren’t good examples of Christian living.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  Shan shrugged again and coughed a throaty, phlegmy cough.

  “I didn’t ask and she didn’t say. I thought Isabel was alright, but that Peter chap seemed off.”

  “What gave you that impression?”

  “Just his way, I guess. Didn’t have much to do with him, but he seemed odd, same as that fella that murdered the Deacon. What was his name again? Fernbull or something.”

  “Turnbull.”

  Shan nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s right. There was another odd sort. Never knew why he was kept on.”

  “Charity is what we heard,” said Florence.

  Shan shrugged again.

  “Odd that they’d offer charity to a stranger. There’s been families here that could use some charity.”

  “I’m sure the church does a lot of charity work that we’re not all aware of.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. But Tillie thought it odd too. Why bring someone who was clearly just passing through into the fold? Strange that.”

  Shan looked down at her cat and stopped petting him. Kept her hand on his back as he continued to purr.

  “You know what else is strange?” asked Shan.

  Florence shook her head.

  “That Teel girl, Harmonie coming to church on Sunday afternoon for bible study.”

  “Why is that strange,” asked Frances.

  “Well, I’ve attended Sunday bible study every Sunday almost without fail for twenty years and I’ve never seen her there once.”

  “She said she wanted to renew her faith,” offered Florence.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see won’t we then, if she comes back next week.”

  The three of them didn’t say anything for a while. Shan lit up another cigarette. Frances wasn’t sure how it would fit in the ashtray at the rate she was smoking.

  “She offered me a ride home on Sunday. Tillie wasn’t there. Said she had some cleaning to do at home. I’m not far from church but I can’t walk like I used to.”

  Frances and Florence nodded.

  “All the way home she kept asking me about Tillie.”

  “What sorts of things?” asked Florence.

  “If she knew what sorts of things went on at the church. I told her that Tillie was probably quite aware of the church’s administration, after all I said, that was her job. But I don’t think that was the answer she was after. She kept asking if there were other things that Tillie was aware of. Some of the church’s failings. I asked her what she meant. But she shrugged it off. Said she’d heard there’d been some problems as the church.”

  “She didn’t say what sort of problems?” asked Florence.

  Shan inhaled on her cigarette and sh
ook her head.

  “We’ve heard that some have mentioned the devil at work in the church. Do you know what that might be about?”

  Shan looked at them quizzically as smoke trailed out her nose.

  “No, and I’m sure Tillie wouldn’t have put up with anything like that at all. She was a good Catholic woman. I don’t know why anyone would say such detestable things about God’s home.”

  “Perhaps you just aren’t aware as some of the others are,” said Florence.

  “I like to keep my nose out of other people’s business,” said Shan. “Nobody likes a nosy neighbor do they?”

  Frances nodded politely. The atmosphere was getting suffocating and was all from the smoke. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

  “Perhaps Tillie knew some of the difficult things that were going on in the church, and perhaps that’s what got her killed?” offered Frances.

  Shan tapped ash into the ashtray. Some had fallen onto her sweater and some had landed on the top of Hairy’s head. It looked as if he’d just come back form service on Ash Wednesday.

  “I can tell you this,” said Shan. “If Tillie knew anything shady was going on she wouldn’t have stood for it. That I can promise you.”

  “So other than perhaps the staff of the church, you can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to kill her?” asked Frances, trying to wrap this up.

  “Well, I don’t like the Teels and neither did Tillie.”

  “You surely can’t believe that Harmonie might have murdered her do you?” asked a genuinely surprised Florence.

  Shan looked at her for a while taking a long inhale on her cigarette.

  “Who knows what people are capable of, but I can tell you this. She was helping Doctor Fitzgibbins this past summer and there was a mix up in medication and a poor lady almost perished because of it. Maybe it was accidental or maybe it was intentional. But there’s that.”

  “Hardly a solid condemnation of murder,” said Florence.

  Shan shrugged it off like a loose towel.

  “Not for me to prove any of this, but for the police to find out who did it.”

  Frances stood up. She’d had quite enough of the suffocation.

  “Thank you very much for your time Ms. Beake. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Florence stood up.